


Charity and Cupidity

by cheesecakecharlotte



Category: Original Work
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, Drug Use, Gen, Minor Character Death, Murder, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Suicide Attempt, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 20:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12395352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheesecakecharlotte/pseuds/cheesecakecharlotte
Summary: "I...I think I woke up on the wrong side of the tracks, to tell you the truth. You might think I'm a totally fucking loon, but let me be straight with you now- I think I got dumped here by someone. Who though? Who just knocks a guy unconscious and throws him into the back of a stranger's Cadillac? And what's up with my face being plastered all over the news? They- they think I killed a man! I'm being framed- I've never picked up a gun in my life! And...and even if I did, I can't remember shit! My memory's gotten fucked so badly that I can't even remember the last YEAR of my life! And now, to make matters worse, I show up in your car with a Glock, a bloody wallet full of hundred dollar bills, and no alibi to speak of. Tell me, Taxi Driver, how can my life possibly get anymore screwed up?"





	Charity and Cupidity

**Author's Note:**

> Spotify playlist for the interested: https://open.spotify.com/user/madokamidoka/playlist/61PSBrlORaCqNOd533IgT5  
> Pinterest board: https://www.pinterest.com/xoxoblackpearl/story-charity-and-cupidity/

Why is it dark? Am I in some kind of drug induced coma, or tumbling through a Nyquil-esque horror trip? Nothing is moving or communicating with me. My body feels like someone shot me full of elephant tranquilizer and then conked me on the head with a rock. Maybe I had way too much blue Bacardi last night and I’m in the hospital… 

I attempt to move my lethargic limbs, but all I am met with is an acute feeling of pins and needles coursing through my veins and a dull throb at the base of my skull.

Damn, I must be really smashed if I can’t even move my fingers and toes. Maybe I should just lie here a bit and sleep. That seems like a better alternative than forcing myself awake and dragging myself to Ecology on a beer belly. 

This is gonna be one hell of a hangover…

……………

“Why the fuck is there a dead body in the back seat of my Cadillac?”

Dead body?

Cadillac? 

What in God’s name? Where the fuck am I? These inquiries aren’t reaching anyone, are they? Am I speaking Japanese here? 

I snap my eyes open with a degree of difficulty and gape. Just fucking gape. 

Because all I see is white leather. White leather and desert. Colors and swirls of sand and absolutely no surf in sight. 

My brain positively convulses with unanswered questions. Wait, whose Cadillac is this? Am I dead? Is this swanky 1970s Heaven? Maybe it’s Hell, judging by the wasteland scenery and the petrified corpses of (thankfully) not humans, but tree stumps.

“Wait, you’re not dead?” 

There was that voice again. I tentatively turn my head to face its direction and what I see doesn’t really surprise me as much as it just makes me that much more confused about my current situation. 

Sitting in the driver’s seat of the muscle car is a guy, probably around my age. He had slicked back flaxen-blonde hair and a slightly bronzed skin tone, like someone had charbroiled his body in the sun. His eyes were of an incandescent hue, blue and sharp like a piece of glass puncturing a midsummer’s raindrop. His hands were rough looking and small, and he gripped the steering wheel with all the grace of a newborn baby. From my perspective, I could see that the guy was wearing what appeared to be stone washed jeans and a white wife beater. The jeans were a little worse for wear and were tearing in several places, giving him the look of a stylish hobo. His right foot was tapping impatiently to some unknown rhythm, and his maroon Doc Martens made short and steady thump thumps on the carpeted floor. He was currently giving me a look of dire suspicion, and his nose was turned up at me as if I was a delinquent who had the audacity to bleed a river on his mini coupe or whatever greaser mobile he was driving. 

“Well buddy? I’m glad you’re not dead, but why the fuck are you in the back of my Cadillac?” He bites his lips and turns away from me for a moment before turning towards his window and rolling the thing up. His shoulders are tensed in concentration, but I’m certain it’s not due to the desert heat or the act of turning on the air conditioning. He turns towards me again, this time facing me straight on- expectant.

“I’m- I just. I don’t know.” I feel frantic trying to decipher my mixed emotions and scrambled thoughts. Did some stupid frat boys decide to dump me here as some kind of hell week prank? 

How long have I been stuck in this Cadillac with this stranger, passed out and drooling all over myself mentally? An hour? A day? A week? Longer perhaps?

I can’t fucking remember. Mom. Dad. They’re probably worried sick about me; phoning the police and faxing the FBI my Social Security number in hopes of scrounging up my lost body. 

Shit- what if they think I’m dead?

Cell phone- let them know you’re alive and kicking. You’re not at the bottom of a landfill- you’re simply driving through the desert getting horribly bleached by the sun on a fabulous vacation. 

Nice. Lovely lie.

I hastily shove my still trembling fist into the pocket of my jeans and dig around for my precious cell phone. I come up completely empty. What the hell?

“Hey man. See if you have your wallet on you somewhere. Someone may have robbed you and dumped you here. If that’s the case, you need to get to the police.” 

Thank God this man has more sense left in his head than I do at the moment. 

“Yeah…I’ll look.” I pat myself down, searching in vain for my wallet. 

I feel a bump in the interior of my left jacket pocket. I fish my wallet out after a minute of fumbling with my still shaking fingers. 

What I discovered next would be like a slap in the face- my personal awakening of sorts. It would be the cold water that would shock me out of my drunken college dream stupor and make me wish I was back at Palm Springs getting my toes buried beneath the sand like a stupid five year old kid.

Blood liberally coated my torn and frayed black wallet. The blood was caked upon the tough leather, dry as a bone. The metallic scent still lingered, however, and the now crusty liquid made me sick to my stomach. A growing nausea settled over me and I took a few calming breathes. 

The driver was staring at me incredulously. His bright eyes bore bullet holes into my face in utter disbelief and he looked at me as if I had just killed a man. 

Shit he thinks I killed a man- oh fuck me, this is bad news.

“It’s not what you think…” I try to placate him with calming words, but his expression doesn’t change. Thinking quickly, I rummage around my wallet looking for my driver’s license. 

Prove to him that you’re not an ex-con who just escaped from Alcatraz and hope he doesn’t pull a gun out from his glove box and nick you in the noggin. 

I finally procure my “get out of jail” card and hand it to the driver. He takes it carefully, plucking it out of my grip with his index and thumb and drawing it close to his face. He studies it in silence.

Oh man, I feel like I’m on trial for my life.

I bite my nails anxiously as I wait for the verdict. Damn, if he decides to dump me in the middle of the desert, then I’m so dead. I have no clue as to my location, and have no way of getting out of the badlands except by walking, which will probably end well for the vultures, but not for me. I realize with startling clarity that this man (who probably thinks I’m the twisted love child of a serial killer and bank robber) is my only way out of hell and back home. I audibly gulp.

“You said you can’t remember anything? You must remember something…try to think back as far as you can. Give me a synopsis of your life.”

His voice startles me out of my midlife crisis and I stare dumbly into the distance. I feel like a complete idiot.

I physically smack my palm against my forehead and squeeze my eyes shut in a desperate attempt at remembering just who the hell I am. Maybe Ancestry.com would help…

“Name?”

“Jamie…Jamie Duke.”

“Birthday? Day, month, and year. Specifics would be appreciated, Jamie.”

“Um…July 17th, 1995. Palm Springs, California. At Desert Regional Medical Center. Cesarean. 8 pounds 7 ounces at 4:30 in the afternoon. I’m 20.”

“20? What college do you attend?”

“USC. That’s the University of Southern California. I’m majoring in pharmacology.”

“Okay. I’ll ask you about a series of events that probably happened in your life, and you tell me if you can recall them, okay?” 

“Okay.”

“Getting your high school diploma?” 

“Yes.” 

“Taking the SAT?” 

“Yes.”

”Taking your driving test?” 

“Yes.” 

“Do you remember anything about your first year of college?” 

“Yes. I failed my biology final exam and I had to repeat it…wait…did I? I can’t remember if I…hold on. This is odd. I can’t remember my schedule this year at all, but I can recall last year’s schedule just fine. Even my professors. Danielson, McCarter, Fallon…Oh no. Don’t tell me…”

“It seems that you can remember everything just fine up until about a year ago, but after that, your mind’s wiped.”


End file.
